For several seconds, Lawson could only stare wide eyed into the darkness in front of him. He had somehow managed to step back into the hall as the staircase started to fall. He tried to reach out and grab at least one of his officers and pull them inside, but something smacked him on the hand and he stumbled backwards, falling down. Now he was sitting on the dirty floor, trying to blink away all the dust and rust swirling in the air, a cough ripping through his chest.
'Bloody hell, what was that?' he thought then scrambled back up to his feet, trying to ignore the twinge in his bum leg. He stepped to the edge of the doorway, shining his torch down.
He couldn't see a thing.
There was so much dust in the air it looked almost like smoke from fire. He coughed then cleared his throat.
"Charlie! Bill!" he bellowed to the pit that was below. He could see parts of the clearing protruding from the rubble and the dust, the rest of the staircase hanging from the wall, creaking and looking for all like it could crumble any second.
There was no sound from his officers. No answer.
Lawson felt his heart skip a beat.
'Dear lord, don't let them be dead,' he prayed, shining his torch all around the space, trying to see through the dirt, trying to spot a body.
Nothing. All he could see was rusty metal, rebar, pieces of the wall. He heard more creaking and quickly shone the light up to see if there was something else falling. The second story of the staircase seemed to be holding in place by some miracle. Lawson hoped it would last, at least until Charlie and Bill get out. He didn't want to imagine how much damage it would cause if it fell on top of them right now.
If they were even alive.
Lawson's stomach was a twisted knot and burning bile.
"Charlie!"
Nothing.
"Bill!"
"Damn it, make a sound!" he shouted angrily then listened. The only thing he could hear was the settling of the rubble, the occasional creaking of staircase that kept holding on. And the sound... the one that made Charlie and Bill rush upwards.
The wailing of a child, calling for help.
Lawson wanted to scream.
He couldn't go up... he couldn't go down. And there was no way he could help either of them alone.
He tried calling out one more time, waited several seconds. He thought there might've been a groan but when it wasn't followed up with anything, Lawson let out a curse and smacked the wall angrily.
"I'm going to call for help! Hang on!" he called and then, feeling as if he was leaving someone in a burning building, he turned his back and started running back the way they had come from.
Well, maybe running was a bit strong of a word. Lawson's cane was clapping against the floor loudly. The echo of the claps and the sound of his breathing made his skin crawl. Walking down the long, dark hallway alone, only in the company of his occasionally blinking torch, was much more daunting than he would've thought. Despite knowing what was - or rather wasn't in the rooms he was passing, he felt as if he was being followed by unseen eyes.
'Get your shit together,' Lawson thought and pushed on. His leg gave a protest as he was trying to take off in a jog. The corridor was so much longer than he remembered.
He finally made it back to the main entrance hall. He gave it a quick sweep with the torch, just to make sure there was no one around. The light was casting strange shadows, the spider webs and the occasional nature wowing its way through the building just adding to its terrifying atmosphere.
None of that mattered though. He had to call help, had to get back to his people and make sure they were alive. He had to wake up from this nightmare.
The fresh air was like a slap on his face. Lawson didn't even realize how fast he passed through the entrance, practically falling through the front door into the night.
Seeing the sky, however dark it was, made everything seem more real. The cars. He had to get to the radio. Lawson looked around, for a second hoping to see another car pulling up. Shouldn't there be someone else coming? Didn't Thompson send out an ambulance?
No, Lawson shook his head. Of course not. He told him to wait for a call with that.
Lawson cursed and now heavily limping made his way to his car. He opened the door, practically falling down on the seat even as he was grabbing for the radio transmitter.
He froze.
The radio was broken.
Not just... not working. No... the whole thing was smashed to pieces.
Lawson felt a chill run down his spine as a terrible thought entered his mind.
He looked around, but he couldn't see anyone else. No movement. No sign that there was anyone else.
But there must've been.
Backing out of the car, Lawson stood leaning against the door. With a sick feeling of intuition, he shone his torch at the tires.
Slashed.
All four of them... slashed with a knife.
Gritting his teeth, one hand clutching hard at the cane, the other treaming the torch as if it was a baton, Lawson turned towards Bill's car. He could see even from the distance that the tires were also slashed.
Still... he made his way towards it and leaned over.
The radio was busted as well. Cables ripped out, pieces of it lying on the floor of the car.
Someone didn't want them to leave or call for help.
Lawson felt his legs turn into jelly... he had to lean against the car not to sink down to the ground.
He took several deep breaths, trying to get a handle on his emotions. Push back the fear. Not for himself but for the two men still in the building, possibly hurt if not...
No.
Lawson shook his head.
They weren't dead. Couldn't be.
He had to go back and help them. He shouldn't have left in the first place, leaving them vulnerable. Someone was there with them and there was no telling what that person wanted. Lawson wasn't sure if they'd orchestrated the collapse of the stairs, but busting the radios in this situation was equal to a murder attempt.
He had to return to his people...
But first, he wanted to look inside the cars. He wasn't sure how he would make his way down, but he would take whatever there was. A rope or a first aid kit. Anything to help.
He cursed the fact he didn't have a gun, but he could hardly expect there might be a need for it on the way home.
Opening the trunk of the car he did indeed find a rope. If it was long enough or even possible to use would remain to be seen. Unless he knew what was the situation with Charlie and Bill he didn't know what else to bring. He grabbed a few bandages from the first aid kit just to be on the safe side and dug through the compartment until he found a pack of batteries for the torch. Last thing he wanted was to stay in the dark if he ran out.
Lawson took the rolled up rope and threw it over his shoulder, then with an angry look firm in place headed back inside the asylum.
The walk back towards the staircase lasted even longer. Heaved down with the rope and his leg already tired from the whole day, Lawson had to lean on his cane more than he liked. The only company was the sound of his steps and breathing. He didn't know a place could be so daunting but it was. He pressed on however, well aware that his people... his friends were in need of help. Fear, however irrational, had to be pushed to the background.
He was finally back to the end of the corridor. A pang of disappointment hit him when he didn't see anyone there. Somehow, he had a hope that at least one of the men managed to get back up and would be waiting.
Of course that was a rather ridiculous assumption.
He stopped at the end of the corridor, where the metal landing had vanished below. With a lump in his throat he looked down.
The dust had somehow settled but he couldn't see much more than metal and rubble.
"Charlie? Bill?" he called out once again, praying that there would be an answer.
For the longest minute of his life, there was only silence accompanied by sounds of creaking, pebbles rolling and a distant sound of a child calling for help.
Then he heard it.
A cough.
His heart leapt in his chest.
The sound was coming from down below.
"Charlie? Bill! Answer me, damn it!" he shouted, panic working into his voice.
"B-boss?"
Lawson let out a shaky breath and felt his legs tremble. He grasped at the door frame and closed his eyes for a mere second.
"Charlie," he breathed out. He was alive.
"Bill?" he called out then, praying.
There was a groan and another cough then a grumbled "Here," was his answer.
They were both alive.
The dinner was a strange affair. After thirty minutes passed without Lawson and Charlie arriving, it was decided that they would proceed with the dinner. After all, it made little sense to let everything else get cold. Jean was a bit annoyed by the fact the men didn't even call to let them know not to wait up, but it was only a minor inconvenience, one that she was getting used to.
Danny and Rose more than made up for entertainment and for a while everyone kind of forgot that they were missing two people. Of course that didn't last long. Once they finished the main course and were starting on desserts, Rose shot a wistful look towards Charlie's usual place.
"Why didn't they call?" she spoke and it was as if she broke the pretence.
"There might've been an emergency and they simply have no time," Blake offered.
"Yeah. It's crazy how often something happens like five minutes before shift ends," Danny added knowingly.
For a little while that explanation seemed to be enough. After dessert they helped Jean clear up and moved to the living room for some drinks. But when the clock announced another hour had passed, Blake had started to feel a bit of concern. He could understand emergencies, but this dinner had been planned for some time. One phone call wouldn't have hurt.
Blake put down his now empty glass and straightened his shirt, shooting a smile at Jean when she raised an eyebrow.
"Going somewhere?" Danny asked curiously.
"I'll call the station. Perhaps Matthew left a message and the officer there just forgot to pass it on."
Danny and Rose exchanged a glance. If Blake was getting worried, perhaps they should be doing the same. Blake saw that and waved his hand.
"I'm sure they are fine, but I'd rather check."
"None of us are protesting," Danny pointed out and Blake's lips quirked. He made it over to the phone in the hall and noticed that Rose had stood as well to follow him, leaning against the wall.
Blake dialled the familiar number.
It took a bit longer than he would've expected for someone to pick up. Even then, he heard a somehow croaky "Ballarat police station. How can I help you?"
Blake frowned, trying to figure out who he was speaking with.
"This is Dr. Blake. I wanted to ask if Superintendent Lawson is still at the station."
A moment of silence and Blake could swear he heard a harsh intake of breath, then a clearing of throat.
"Uh, sorry Doctor Blake. Superintendent Lawson was called away for an emergency. He will be available tomorrow for any inquiries."
Blake froze. Something wasn't right. Everyone at the station knew Matthew lived at Blake's house. Why would he have to wait for the next day?
"Can I help you with anything else, Dr. Blake?"
Finally, Blake had recognized the officer as constable Thompson. He knew what was strange... the man's voice was usually jovial and lower in tone. Right now it sounded a bit... high pitched. Croaky. And Thompson definitely knew Lawson was supposed to be home right now.
"Ah, I suppose nothing else, constable Thompson. Say... how is your lovely wife Elisa doing? Still suffering from those dreadful migraines?"
Thompson didn't lose a moment. He gave a nervous chuckle.
"Ah no, the migraines are all gone. The medicine you prescribed few weeks ago worked like a charm."
"Glad to hear. Alright, I'll leave you to work, constable. In case you get to speak to the superintendent, tell him to give me a call, yes?"
"Of course. Have a good night, Dr. Blake," Thompson said and without waiting for a reply ended the call.
Blake stood there for a moment, slowly returning the phone to its cradle.
"What's wrong?" Rose asked, a frown marring her face. Danny appeared next to her.
Blake grimaced, then nodded at them to return to the living room. Once they were back there, Blake walked up to the couch and leaned against the armrest, but didn't sit down.
"Doc? What's wrong?"
Blake recounted the call and they exchanged a confused look.
"Is it possible the constable just... forgot about uncle Matthew living here?"
Blake shook his head, but it was Danny whose frown was the deepest.
"That's not even it, Rose," he said, grimacing.
"Then what's the problem?"
"Constable Thompson doesn't have a wife."
"And I most definitely didn't prescribe this nonexistent wife any migraine medication," Blake added.
"Then what-" Rose paused, her face turning pale.
"I think constable Thompson wasn't alone. And I think Matthew and Charlie might be in trouble."
Constable Peter Thompson put the phone back into its cradle, trying unsuccessfully to hide how shaky his hand was. The masked man behind him didn't care. Peter felt the nuzzle of the gun nudge the back of his skull, ruffling his hair.
"I hope for your sake that wasn't an attempt to warn someone," the man growled and Peter gave a slight shake of head, his breath catching in his throat. He felt something wet run down from his forehead to his cheek and idly wondered whether it was blood or sweat. He didn't dare to reach up and check though.
He knew from experience now that any unannounced move would bring pain.
Not that he could move all that much.
He was sitting on a chair, a thick rope tied around his chest and ankles, making him one with the chair. His hands were handcuffed in front of him, but only so he could work the phone if needed. The chair he was sat on was pushed flush against the desk, leaving him with barely enough space to breathe, his hands put on top of the desk, on display at all times.
"What... what do you want?" he asked once again but the only answer he got was a slap on the back of his head.
"Shut up!" the man uttered. Without a warning, he pulled some nasty rag out of his pocket and did a quick job with tying it around Peter's mouth. Peter wanted to protest but the gun was threateningly close to his face. He might not have a wife waiting on him at home, but he was barely thirty. He didn't want to die.
He just hoped that Blake was indeed as smart as he liked to pretend to be. Peter was still feeling guilty about sending his superior officers on a wild goose chase. God, he hoped the bogus call was just a distraction and not a trap. He couldn't forgive himself if the men got hurt or worse killed because he was too afraid to warn them.
Even though he hardly had a choice in the matter. And to think the night had started out on such a good note. Peter had been looking forward to the night shift for several days now. It was always calmer during night. He had time to scribble into his notebook, try to finish one of his short stories. He was working up the courage to send some of them into the Courier, see if they could perhaps be published. And if the writing would get boring, Johnny was at guard duty. Whenever they got a night shift together, they found a time for a few games of card. Seeing that this time Hobart was the night shift lead, Peter was looking forward to a bit of gambling as well.
It all went to hell before he could even settle down for his shift though. Lawson and Davis had just left and Peter locked up the door behind them. Ever since the incident with Ned the rules at the station changed. There were to be two people working nights... three if they had someone in the cells.
And the door was to be locked.
Lot of good that did though. Peter had made himself coffee and settled behind the desk to try and get rid of the paperwork Lawson assigned him so he would have the rest of the night free. Hobart had left a few minutes earlier on a call of disorderly conduct in the local pub. Peter assumed the man would take his sweat time coming back.
He was a bit surprised then when he heard knocking on the front door.
"Anyone here? Please, there has been an accident. We need help!" a male voice called, sounding quite panicked.
Peter didn't think about it. He unlocked the door, ready to offer assistance.
Next thing he knew he was lying on the floor, blinking away the darkness. His head hurt and it was with a belated reaction that he noticed the gun now pointed at his chest. He noticed a splotch of red on the nuzzle, wondering whether it was his own blood or just a weird spot in his suddenly blurry vision.
"What-" he uttered before a boot stepped on his chest, pinning him to the ground. Peter stayed unmoving. Still confused, he followed the boot up to its owner, only to be met with a black ski mask. Only thing he saw about his attacker were the dark eyes, glaring at him.
He heard the lock turning and two more men walked by. One of them paused and squatted down next to Peter. His face was also hidden underneath a mask.
"Where are the cells?" he asked gruffly.
Peter's eyes widened.
The boot pressed down harder and Peter gasped for breath, squirming, trying to free himself. All he got for his effort was a quick slap on the face.
"Cells!" the man repeated and a gun was pushed under his chin.
Peter tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He let out a sound he wasn't proud of and in an attempt to survive few minutes longer, he pointed towards the corridor that led to the cells. The squatting man got up and without a word left, the other one following him. The third one, with his boot still on Peter's chest, leaned down.
"Here's the deal, copper. You do as I say... you might see tomorrow. If not... there's a bullet with your name on it. Understood?"
Peter gulped, then gave a small nod. He couldn't have spoken if he wanted to. And he didn't.
The nod seemed to be answer enough. The man nodded and let up the pressure.
"I want you to get up, slowly. Then settle down behind your desk. Any quick moves and you get a bullet."
Peter did as he was told. He wasn't proud about it, but he didn't fight back, didn't even make a sound.
He was just sitting down behind his desk when he heard a sound of struggle from somewhere in the depth of the building and realized that must've been Johnny.
He turned, wide eyed towards the door to the corridor, but the man nudged him with the gun.
"Don't even think about it," he grunted. Then he requested Peter's own damn handcuffs and made sure they clicked tight around his wrists. Before Peter knew it, there was a rope being tied around his chest, then legs. Where the hell did it come from? He didn't notice it before, but perhaps one of the other attackers brought it in while he was lying on the floor, dazed from the head blow.
He wondered what this was all about. Was this a robbery? Were they trying to make a statement by taking the police station hostage? What was the damn endgame?
The man's request that followed made even less sense to Peter.
"How many units are active right now?" he asked first. Peter blinked. Should he lie or tell the truth? He started shaking his head, but the man's eyes narrowed and his teeth bared.
"Don't lie to me. I know there must be someone else there."
"O-one," Peter finally admitted.
The man didn't seem to believe him.
"Put out a call. To ALL units," he emphasized with the jab of his gun, then told Peter exactly what to say.
Reluctantly, Peter made the call. And cringed when he heard the superintendent respond. He forgot the man took one of the cars with the radio. With twisted stomach, he lied through his teeth as both Lawson and Hobart headed out to the address and wondered what did he send them into.
Almost an hour passed before the phone rang. Peter was trying very hard to control his emotions by then. He didn't know what was going on. He heard sounds of scuffle from time to time. He heard furniture being tossed, doors slammed. The men were obviously searching for things. The one that stayed with him in the main office started going through the cabinets, grabbing several files, tossing the rest all over the floor. Peter didn't have a clue which files he took and that was most likely the whole purpose.
He wondered if Johnny was alright. He wondered about the three men that were held in the cells. Two of them were local troublemakers locked up to cool down or awaiting a court date. The third one... all Peter knew was that the man was someone new in town, involved in racketeering. Someone detective Davis worked hard to catch. Peter hoped the men who forced themselves inside the station would leave the prisoners alone. That they would take whatever they came for and just leave.
When Blake called... Peter had been tied up for over an hour. His hope that this will get resolved without bloodshed was gone.
Lawson or Hobart hadn't called back and that meant that they most likely ran into trouble. Somewhere deep inside, Peter started to realize that this might not end well for either of them. He had to do something. Had to at least try.
Whether it was the right choice to involve Blake in the matter was left to be seen. As Peter fibbed his way through the call, he fervently hoped it wasn't the biggest mistake of his life.